Tag Archives: cute man

Typically, the only thing I loathe more than fashion is fashion photography — so daring, so risque, so overindulgently pretentious that it makes my teeth ache.

Still, even I have to give when it comes to designerDavid Mason’s Slick It Up line — an eye-opening fetish-meets-concrete swagger collection colliding the street, the club, the bedroom, and the sex dungeon together in one vinyl cutaway supernova.

It’s the photography — managing to be hot, cartoonish, self-lampooning, candy-colored, cheeky, edgy, and geeky all at once without collapsing under its own weight — that really puts this line gleefully over-the-top. Everything about the Sleeping Beauty by way of The Road Warrior tableau at left is pitch-perfect: Prince Charming remixed as a burr-cut urban black knight in body armor, the Disney-worthy matte background, the emerald forest of imposing thorns, and the looming shadow of the dragon. Bridging the wide gap between Cruising and Dragon’s Lair is no mere feat, and that means even an ice-hearted label-hater like me has a melting point.

How much do they make?Who’s servicing a Hollywood bigwig? Who got screwed out of a part by a competitor? Who got infected with what on the set?

The porn business has hardly ever been what you could call gossip-free — you could always count on a particularly tawdry arrest or some vicious smack talk between rivals — but lately the industry’s self-imposed sealed-lips policy seems be in jeopardy of some leering insider prying.

Too much information about what’s going on above, beneath, and beyond the San Fernando Valley has Smut City’s identity crisis kicked up to a fever pitch. The Internet has done more than just change how porn is made and disseminated — it may now be altering the means by which the biz keeps its own secrets.

Yes, in the age of Web-based public interest whistle-blowing, even porn has its own self-appointed activist, though most in the industry would cast him less as confidential source Bradley Manning than they would gossip gadfly Hedda Hopper — his motivations rooted in career frustration, envy, misogyny, and an apoplectic disdain for gay-for-pay male stars playing both sides of the fence.

Back in the ’90s, it was iconic Colt Man Paul Barresi who proved to be an irksome thorn-in-the-ass for for the Adult Film Industry. The former star-turned-director-turned-Hollywood-P.I. was notorious for badmouthing Hollywood’s smut doyens, undercutting models’ asking prices to rock bottom, presiding over multiple mainstream tabloid scandals, and even cooperating with authorities to bust top-tier pimp David Forest’s male escort service. Today, his heir apparent seems to be one Donny Long — straight performer-cum-director — whose visceral contempt for the industry and its participants has him ready to snatch the title of The Most Hated Man In Porn.

Fingers are pointing at porn bad boy Long (left) — who denies spearheading the Netherlands-based Porn WikiLeaks — as the likeliest suspect by nature of his known assertions that gay-for-pay performers are a serious threat to the hetero side of the business. Most are clear in casting him as an embittered wash-out with a serious axe to grind against and industry that’s shunned him. Sample claim: “The straight porn business has changed a lot and not for the better and hopefully one day it will get cleaned up and get the scumbags and gays out for good. The industry has never ever needed condoms and is fine with just testing monthly if the gays would stay over on the gay side.” That’s one his more coherent statements, mind you; most play like paranoid diatribes devoted to perceived injustices and petty vendettas.

You could drive a semi through that kind of logic — the 2004 HIV porn outbreak found its vector in a veteran straight performer, while anyone screened by the Adult Industry Medical Healthcare Foundation can be negative on paper when a test performed two weeks ago can’t possibly reflect an unprotected sexual encounter from last night — but that hasn’t stopped Porn WikiLeaks from engaging in its mission to brand crossover male stars as positive, gay-to-straight defector Maxx Diesel (now known as Christian and Christian XXX, right) a favorite target for defaming. AIM claims its database was hacked earlier this month, and with private health information now turning up on the Porn WikiLeaks forum, the industry is inferring Long to be the records-breaching culprit.

It gets worse. Racial and ethnic slurs are commonplace in the forum — currently offline as of today’s date — and female performers are especially vulnerable to attack. The site has gone so far to predict actresses’ demises, and even urge readers to make contact with their families and neighbors. Home addresses are now public fodder, and even family members’ personal details are being leaked.

What form will all the fallout take? Ruined careers? Further stigmatization of male stars who moonlight in gay features? AIDS hysteria? Emboldened stalkers? Death threats? Suicide, even?

Even though I tell myself that this is tragic and chemically-enhanced male beauty, I still can’t stop my groin from stiffening at the sight of it. As a child, I had no conception of what “gay” was — much more the existence of the Muscle Bear — but that didn’t keep me from laying eyes on Brawn Master Lyle Alzado, secretly desiring that he would punish me hard, and thinking…

Look at this image and tell me that the porn industry isn’t in need of some serious regulation.

It’s easy to forget that a porn set is actually a workplace. I live in abject terror of dying in the bathroom; whenever I get in or out of the shower, it’s like a Final Destination setpiece for me. Imagine the leering sadism of the director here — all these sharp corners and unyielding surfaces. He could have easily had these guys go at it in the shower, which is perilous enough, but no, the bastard actually made them fuck in the sink. Are these poor models insured? Do they get workers compensation? My God — they’re literally one quivering hand away from a dislocated shoulder or a head injury!

I’m starting to think that hot-ass bikers are like unicorns — I’ve seen them in print, on TV, and in my head, but I’ve never actually crossed paths with one in real life. Not once.

They turn up in gay porn movies. They look great splayed over their hogs in magazine pictorials. They’re always welcome at Gay Pride. Still, the real deal is always a let down for me — lots of wasted-looking slobs, obvious weekend warriors, and shallow-grave-digging highway killers. Whenever a group of bikers pass me on the road, I feel this giddy rush of anticipation that dies almost immediately when I see American Flag windbreakers and wives with damaged hair in tow.

Where has this guy been all my life? When you dream of being accosted on the sidewalk by leering werewolves on wheels who circle around you Satan’s Sadists-style and slap your ass, their leader manhandling you as you protest “Please sir! I have to get home on time from lacrosse practice, or my Dad’ll be sore at me!,” isn’t this the hot piece you picture — your pleas only making his groin that much more aggressively tumid as he promises you can go if you just let him tongue-fuck your face first?

Didn’t you always wish that your idyllic little Northwestern town would be overrun by howling glory stompers with handlebar ‘staches and wifebeaters, turning the place into an all-out dragstrip riot as they cripple local law enforcement and cut off all communication to the outside world? A born loser with prison arms and an ass like a grill on a mack truck sets his sights on you, and despite all the Pilates, you’re no match for his feral brawn. “Dang! Them’s some nice blue eyes ya got there, pretty boy! I like the ladies, but they can’t take my kind of rough handlin’!” You resist, saying “I don’t want any trouble, man! I didn’t mean to turn you on!,” to which he only laughs before braying “Too late!”. Then, as he hoists you over his shoulder like a rampaging silverback, you can only futilely beseech “No! You don’t understand! Blue eyes are just a genetic luck of the draw! They’re a recessive trait!”
“A recessive trait!”

If a young and hunky Bruce Campbell circa Evil Dead 2 decided to forgo cult movie star status for a different path leading into fuck films, then ready-to-spread Hunter Scott is the closest approximation I can think of for that dream being realized.

Still, there’s hitch that results in one porn star receiving the mantle of immortality while another fades into obscurity:

Timing.

You can achieve greatness, but if someone else has already beaten you to the punch and set the gold standard, then you unfortunately end up suffering by comparison. As good as becomes your albatross.

Relegated. Demoted. Downgraded.

Hunter Scott had everything you could want in a pantingly submissive porn studlet — everything that should have him fondly enshrined as one of the most gleeful, tongue-wagging bottoms gay porn has ever featured.

His bad luck? Hitting the scene afterJoey Stefano, a twist of fate that unfairly left him in the shadow of a legendary ghost.

The truth is that there were several sultry brunet receivers who followed in the wake of Stefano’s untimely end, though none bore the same mix of sex appeal and encroaching doom that Joey did, this despite their own scorching charms. Joey was in his last year of life when Hunter debuted in 1993, and had Hunter arrived just a few years earlier at the tail end of the ’80s, I have a feeling he’d be less the also-ran he is today and more a superstar in his own right.

I remember thinking what an unusual physical mix he was the first time I saw him in an otherwise mediocre 1994 entry called Bike Bang — his torrid, up-for-anything hotness led around on a chain and practically biting the sheets with ecstasy as he succeeded in making the flick so much more than it had any right to be. Depending on his expression and how he was photographed, he could look like either a smoldering greaser from a ’50s Youth-Gone-Wild exploitation movie or the raven-tressed evil twin of Dudly Do-Right with his big ol’ lantern jaw and goofy smile.

His body was super-toned without being overdone, and without his perfect pelt of dark hair on his torso, he might almost have passed for a compact muscle-twink. Reciting lines, he was a bright-eyed, beaming ingenue, but yowsa, once a dick was up that ass, his face transformed into a horned-out, grimacing sex sneer (in action, left) as he goaded and begged for more.

It’s a testament as to how far he’s slipped into obscurity that I can’t find any notable biographical info on him, this on top of very little in the way of fan nostalgia and only a smattering of pics, odd given what a recognizable fixture he was after his career took off in 1994. He was so consistently able on screen that there isn’t even a single signature film that defined him, and many of his appearances have been chopped down for inclusion in those cut-rate cheapo compilations, an ignoble fate for such a gifted player.

He’s deservedly on the cover for Dreaming In Blue, which pairs him up with Matt Gunther, while The Fluffer provides him with the opportunity to offer himself up to Rob Cryston. He’s in very fine form in Blow Me Down, entices chicks-only Rod Garetto into the hay in Just Men, and gets plowed atop a motorcycle in Manticipation. He’s quite the hoot in Jawbreaker, cast as a jeering rural deputy, who, displeased with the way fugitive Tony Idol services sheriff Vince Rockland’s cock, shoves him aside and shows him how it’s done right, son.

Power Driver is also a home-run, trespassin’ trouble-maker Hunter handled mighty good by big Joe Magnum on top of a truck hood and in the back of the cab, allowing him to deliver the immortal line “Get your dick out of my ass, man!” My guess is that he was something of a kinko in real life, as evidenced by his interview in Just Men, along with the harder-edged look — slicked-back hair, evil goatee, right pierced nip — he adopted late in his career. He turns up as well in the 1997 gay porn documentary Shooting Porn, remembered especially for his willingness to douche on camera.

Where is he now? Well cared for by a satisfied master? Still on the take? Reinvented as a buttoned-down stock broker? Biographically, the man’s a total enigma, so anyone’s guess is as good as mine. Porn sleuths, it’s on you: commit this face to memory, don your best fedora and trench coat ensemble, and keep your eyes peeled for this man. The question haunts my reverie:

Sharing porn with men since 1992.

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